


Broadcast Me a Joyful Noise

by lavvyan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:16:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not having a happy time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broadcast Me a Joyful Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i_know_its_0ver](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=i_know_its_0ver).



> Title taken from the song "Bad Day" by R.E.M. Thanks to Warriorbot for the beta.

On January 1st, Sherlock countered John's "Happy New Year," with a rather waspish, "The passing of another year is hardly something that needs to be celebrated. God, you people and your mindless little customs."

John blinked, shrugged and said, "Alright. Do you want another beer?"

He wasn't about to start the new year with an argument.

~~~

On January 2nd, Lestrade's harmless joke about cake or death earned him such a vicious glare that no one even tried to imply Sherlock would ever choose cake. Over anything. Even death.

John made a mental note to tell Mrs. Hudson not to bother. Unless it was a Dundee cake, in which case Sherlock could go hang.

~~~

On January 3rd, Sherlock declared to all and sundry that the victim had been done in by a rolled-up paper hat being shoved up his nose, which only went to prove once again that the practical use of festive accessories was questionable at best.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the impending headache. It was going to be one of those days.

~~~

On January 4th, Sherlock conducted a lengthy experiment into the effect of the fumes of cheap birthday candles on the respiratory system. There was talk of clogging.

John declined to watch.

~~~

On January 5th, with Sherlock sulking on the sofa like it was the last time he'd get the opportunity, John texted Lestrade to make sure there were to be absolutely no surprise parties the next day. Then he sent a carefully-worded e-mail to Mycroft saying, in very polite terms and among many apologies, that if Mycroft showed his face at the flat at any time over the next 48 hours, John would shoot him on sight.

Mycroft's reply was brief and amiable. It was perfectly agreeable. It made the little hairs at the back of John's neck stand up.

"'Sweet's the air with curly smoke from all my burning bridges,'" he muttered, and resolved to switch off the lights before he moved in front of any windows to make shooting him just that little bit harder.

~~~

On January 6th, John didn't even try to give Sherlock the copy of _Poisons: From Hemlock to Botox to the Killer Bean of Calabar_ he'd bought as a birthday present. He could just leave it by the sofa some time next week, and that would be that. He'd spoiled Sherlock enough for Christmas as it was, and had been repaid in kind. What was one more unread book in their flat?

Sherlock was still – or maybe again, there was no telling with him – curled up on the sofa, his blue robe radiating contempt for all mankind while his pale bare feet seemed to be waiting for someone to wrap his hands around them and warm them up. Sherlock was probably the only man in the world who could look miserable with his toes.

John sat down next to him, using the space left by the curve of the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock sniffed and very pointedly didn't move, his tense stillness screaming that, if only he could, he'd move through the back of the sofa just to get away from John. John smiled a little.

Dear God, but he loved that man.

"When I was little," he said casually, "every birthday was a huge family thing. Mum drove us all over the country to make sure we didn't miss a single boring afternoon. Sometimes I think I became a doctor just to hear about more interesting problems than joint pains and bunions."

Silence.

"And every time, the same stupid questions. How was school? Did I have a girlfriend yet? What did I want to be when I grew up? I swear, there's a special circle of hell, and it's filled with elderly relatives who can't be bothered to remember you from one week to the next."

Sherlock's head tilted, just a little bit.

"And then Mum died," John said, and his voice didn't grow thicker, it didn't, "and Grandma wouldn't stop telling Dad how to raise us, and suddenly the only birthdays we celebrated were Harry's and mine."

He shrugged. Sherlock turned and, face immediately pressed back into the pillows, still somehow managed to curl around John instead of away from him. John placed a hand on his back and rubbed it lightly.

Voice muffled, Sherlock said, "I'm allergic to nuts."

John kept stroking his back and waited.

"'Cause of death: birthday cake.' How trite. Mycroft finds the story hilarious, of course. He retold it frequently until Mummy told him to stop."

John winced at the mental image of a small, dark-haired boy choking on his birthday cake. Airways closing, blood pressure crashing… no matter how old he had been, that had to be a terrifying experience, for the boy and his brother. Pointing out that Mycroft most likely had been trying to deal with the scare in the manner of young males throughout history – i.e. by making fun of it – probably wouldn't be welcome now, though.

"We'll sneak sugar into his sweetener the next time he's over for tea," John promised instead.

Sherlock snorted. "Childish."

"You like childish," John said fondly, and didn't mind that most of the day was spent in silence. Not with the way Sherlock stayed curled around him, breathing quietly into the pillows, sharing his warmth.

~~~

On January 7th, Sherlock woke John with breakfast in bed and the promise to watch a film later, in cinema, with popcorn and everything. No interruptions, no deductions. John smiled, shoved the breakfast tray aside, and pulled Sherlock down into a long, slow kiss.

He'd probably go off his head trying to deal with Sherlock's birthday angst every year.

He'd count it as a blessing, too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Broadcast Me a Joyful Noise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/992931) by [ideduceyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideduceyou/pseuds/ideduceyou)




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